Let Me Fill Those Empty Spaces
by blacksouledbutterfly
Summary: "Well, I suppose I don't need to ask what you've been doing lately, do I?"


It wasn't as though she didn't know when she started to date Greg that it wouldn't be something long term. He wasn't really the type of person that got serious about relationships. She had known that from his reputation and he had told her that anyway. Because in his mind he was too young to be too serious about someone. He could date someone for a while but it would never be a long term thing, a permanent thing. And she had been content with that type of a relationship from the very beginning. If she wasn't then she wouldn't have gone out with him.

She went into the relationship knowing that it wouldn't be a forever situation. She had agreed that she was fine with that and that was the end of it. And while they were together it was nice, it was fun; while they were together she had never thought about how it wouldn't be forever. For nine months they spent time together, went out to dinner together, saw shows. They spent nights at each other's apartments. It was by all means a perfect relationship.

And then, once the nine months had passed, he had come up to her and told her that he didn't think it was going to work anymore and that they were done. It hadn't been unexpected though so she really couldn't balk too much about it. She had simply smiled at him and told him that she understood, that she had been waiting to see when this was going to happen. She told him that there were no hard feelings, that she had fun while it lasted and that she hoped for nothing but the best when it came to him.

Now, four months after the fact, she's lying in her bed looking down at small hill that has formed in her abdomen. It was two months after she and Greg had broken up that she had realized that he hadn't actually left her high and dry. Oh, far from it. He had left her with a very real, very tiny reminder of their relationship, gestating inside of her. So she had tried calling him to let him know that he was going to be a father, simply because she thought he deserved to know that little fact. She hadn't expected anything from him, hadn't expected nor wanted their relationship to resume.

But his number had been disconnected. And so she had ventured out to look for him, showing up at his apartment. He didn't answer when she rang the bell, however, and when one of his neighbors came out she stopped them to ask if they had seen him. And they had told her that about a month ago he had moved out of the area and had left no forwarding address. All and all Greg had fallen off the radar and she had absolutely no way to contact him.

Ever since she realized that she was going to have to go through this entire process on her own she had barely left her apartment. She went out when she needed to get groceries and went down to her mailbox to get her bills but that was really all there was to it. It wasn't as though she didn't speak to anyone anymore. She did. She had spoken to Cobb and Arthur and Eames on the phone. She never mentioned her situation. (They had simply talked about Cobb's kids and the job Eames was working and how Arthur had gone to visit Cobb and his family and how they were doing well. her situation was never mentioned. She never _wanted_ to mention it.)

Now, at four months pregnant, lying in her bed she looks at the little bump where the little being is living inside of her and presses her fingers against it. She runs her fingers from the flat region of her sternum up the little hill until it reaches her bellybutton. It's a small uphill movement, nothing huge yet. She's not far enough along to have a large bump yet but its still there, it's still quite real. And that might be in part because she's such a small built girl to begin with. Or maybe it's just normal for her to have a bump already.

There's a knock at her apartment door and she lazily rolls her head to the side, looking in the general direction of the knock though she doesn't move just yet. She's feeling particularly lethargic today, has absolutely no motivation to move. But then the knocking comes again and she sighs, pushing herself into a sitting position and throwing her legs over the edge of the bed. She makes her way towards the door, wiggling her toes in her socks as she moves, reaching out and opening the door once she gets there.

Furrowing her eyebrows she cocks her head slightly to the side. Confusion makes her eyes shadow for a moment as she looks at the man standing at her door. Taking her hand off of the door she wraps her arms around herself loosely, tugging her sweater shut around her as she looks up at him. "Eames?" Her dark eyebrows furrow at him for a moment, surprised by him being at her door.

"Don't look so surprised, darling," Eames scolds. He has a bag perched up high on his shoulder, his usual cocky smile gracing his face. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"I was just wondering what you're doing here."

"Visiting you, of course. Why else would I be at your apartment door, luv?"

"No, I mean in town."

"Oh, that." Lifting up one hand he waves it as if saving off the question though he's not actually trying to wave it off. It's more that he hadn't thought of letting her know about that. "In town on business, actually. And since I was here I thought I should check in on my favorite little architect."

"You don't need to compliment me," she insists.

"It isn't a compliment. It's a fact. And besides, darling, you've sounded so _morose_ on the phone lately. I wanted to be sure that you're alright. You've got Cobb and Arthur worried about you, you know."

"If they're worried then shouldn't one of _them_ check up on me?"

"And deprive you of my company? Never!" He smiles at her, reaching out and putting a hand on her shoulder. "Come now, darling. Give us a proper greeting." He moves his hand to her shoulder blade and draws her closer to him, wraps an arm around her and hugs her to him despite the fact that tension makes her back go stiff.

He furrows his pale brown eyebrows at her, glancing down at the top of her head and noticing for the hundredth time just how tiny she is. She's such a small, small girl that sometimes he's worried that he's going to hurt her when he hugs her like that. He's hugged her a few times and each time he has to remind himself to be very careful of hurting her. "What's wrong, darling?"

She looks up at him, keeps her eyes as empty as she possibly can. "Nothing," she tells him.

He arches one of his eyebrows at her this time, cocking his head a bit to the side as he watches her and he has to admit that he doesn't believe her. But instead of telling her that he wraps his arm more tightly around her, draws her more firmly against him. And it's only after that he notices something, something he hadn't been paying attention to up until now.

He takes his arm away from her shoulders and puts his hand back on her shoulder, moves her back from him a bit gently. He looks down at her, watching her clench that sweater tight around her like it's the only thing in the world protecting her. "Ariadne," he says gently. "Why are you hiding yourself inside of that little jumper of yours?"

"I'm not hiding." Of course she knows that she's lying to him. She _is_ hiding but the thing of it is that she doesn't want to talk about it, not right now. Sure, Eames is sort of a friend and all but that doesn't mean that she really wants to discuss this with him. It's a personal matter, a very personal matter. And she's quite worried that if she turns around and tells him about it that he'll tell Arthur or Cobb or both and she doesn't really want everyone to know about her personal business. There are some things that you don't even want to share with your friends. And the fact that you're about to become a single mother is most certainly one of them. And honestly, he knows that she's lying. She doesn't doubt that. Eames is such a master liar himself that it would be logical for him to sense when someone else is lying.

"Really now," he chastises, shaking his head and clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I would think that by now, darling, you would have learned that lying to me never works." Reaching out he takes each of her wrists in his hands, his bag sliding down his arm to his elbow with the movement though he doesn't pay much attention to it. Instead he just tugs her arms away from her body, meeting a bit of resistance on her part but even without possibly hurting her it's quite easy for him to move her.

Her little sweater duster opens with her arms no longer wrapped around her and he gazes down at her for a couple of seconds, his head cocked slightly to the side, not in wonder but as though studying what he's seeing, acting as though he's going to be tested on it later, his eyes lingering on the tiny, barely visible bump that is her abdomen.

"Well," he says after a moment, releasing her wrists and turning his gaze up towards her face. "I suppose I don't need to ask what you've been doing lately, do I?"

"That's not _funny_," she hisses at him, wrapping her arms around herself again and closing the sweater around herself.

"I wasn't making a joke," he insists. "I really _don't_ need to ask. It's pretty obvious." He cocks arches both of his eyebrows at her, watching her. "And somehow the look on your face tells me that were I to congratulate you right now I may just get punched in the mouth."

"And Arthur thinks you aren't smart."

"Yes, well, no one ever accused Arthur of knowing me well, Ariadne. He only _thinks_ he does and I let him have his little delusion. It makes him feel better." He hikes his bag up on his shoulder, reaches out with his other hand to take her chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting her face up so he can get a better look at it. "Now, tell me, what has you so upset that you wouldn't even want someone to congratulate you? Or better yet that you would hide this?"

"Maybe I don't want my personal business shared with everyone."

"Ariadne, darling, this is quite obviously something we'd all eventually find out about. What were you going to do if you had to work a job with us after you had the baby? Hide it in a box in your closet for the duration?"

She opens her mouth to answer him and then snaps it shut, puffing her cheeks out in what could be described as something akin to annoyance but doesn't quite reach it. "Of course not."

"Well, then obviously we were going to find out eventually."

"Yes, but by then I thought maybe I'd know how to explain this."

"Explain it?" Eames laughs a little, shaking his head. "I can assure you that we're all big boys, Ariadne. We _all_ know by now where babies come from."

"Stop that." She swats at his hand and tugs her face away from his grasp. "That's not what I meant. Stop being such a smartass."

"But that's a specialty of mine." He presses his hand to his heart as though she wounded him even though he's smiling as he says it. "But if you'd like me to be serious I can do that." He clears his throat as if making a big show of preparing to do just that. "Now, do tell me Ariadne, my favorite architect in the entire world, what it is that you were hoping to figure out how to explain?"

"I was _hoping_ that by the time I got to tell everyone I would be able to explain to them _why_ I'm raising this baby all on my own."

"Oh, Ariadne." For a moment he isn't sure why but that makes him feel quite sad, quite sad indeed, the idea of her having to handle something so monumental all on her own.

"I don't want pity," she insists. "I just want to be alone."

"I take that to mean you don't want the pleasure of my company right now."

"See? You _are_ smart."

"You _are_ aware that I'm going to stop in and see you again while I'm here, aren't you?"

"Somehow I don't doubt that."

Eames is chuckling under his breath when she closes the door. 

* * *

><p>The first thing that he had done when he had left her little flat was to call up the group he was going to be working with in Paris and tell them that he couldn't do this particular job. He didn't elaborate; he didn't give them any type of a reason. He simply said that something had come up and he couldn't take the time out to work the job. And then he did something he almost never did-he suggested a rival forger to them that might be able to come out to help them on short notice. Normally he wouldn't send work someone else's way but the situation called for it.<p>

He had checked into the safe house he uses when he was in Paris and later that night Arthur called. Once he had found out that Eames had headed to Paris he had decided that he wanted to know what was going on. And so he called him up and was asking all sorts of questions which though understandable simply served to make the forger feel weary. And through his end the conversation was more that of one used to humor something than anything else. Yes, I spoke to Ariadne. Yes, she's fine. I don't know why she hasn't spoken much to you. I suppose she's busy. Yes, I'm sure she's fine. Well, I saw her in person so I suppose I'd know better than you, wouldn't I? Yes, I'm sure. Well, if you don't trust me then call her yourself. It had been pretty monotonous but had had put up with it rather than have to sit there and listen to Arthur bitch about how he wasn't helpful, how he didn't seem to understand that the others were worried about the little architect. It was a small price to pay for relative silence.

He showed up at Ariadne's apartment every single day since that first day. At first she wouldn't do more than open the door and look at him then remind him that she hadn't wanted to have any company. And then after a while she would stand there for a couple of minutes and chat with him about nothing really, about whatever it was that he could get her to actually comment on. And then after a little longer she had let him into the apartment but had all but ignore him, going back into her bedroom and locking herself away there.

Arthur called twice during that whole thing to make sure that the architect was still alright. What Eames couldn't tell him was that she hadn't been leaving her apartment except when she needed to; what he didn't tell him was that she would barely speak to him. Because then Arthur would just worry as Arthur is known to do and he'd probably fly out there himself and the poor girl didn't need to feel as though they were all ganging up on her though in a way that wouldn't be all that inaccurate.

But now, an entire month since he first got to Paris he's sitting in Ariadne's apartment and she's actually sitting with him. She's not really saying anything at the moment. She's got her eyes fixed on the movie she's watching on the television but he had managed to get her to venture out of her bedroom and sit there with him. He made them tea because her stomach is still jumpy and he thought it would help calm her down. He sat down on her couch and just asked her to sit down with him and she had after giving him this dramatic rolling of her eyes like he had asked her to do something so, so difficult. But despite that she isn't looking at him; despite that she isn't talking to him.

And so after a while of sitting there as though he were a piece of furniture he sighs heavily and picks up the remote, pressing the pause button. The image on the screen freezes and he puts down his teacup as he looks over at her. "I hate to point out the obvious, darling, but being cross with me isn't going to help matters any."

"I'm not mad at you," she insists, her gaze still fixed on the television despite the last of movement. "Can you put the movie back on now?"

"Well, for someone who isn't mad at me you're sure _acting_ mad at me."

"Am I?"

"You know you are. Don't play dumb, Ariadne. We both know you're not. It doesn't suit you to pretend to be." He shifts in his spot on the couch, angling his body a bit so his back is pressed against the arm. "Now, I understand that your situation right now isn't exactly what most would call _ideal_ but wouldn't it make more sense for you to be mad at the person who helped put you into that position. And, needless to say, that person isn't me."

"I'm not mad at you," she repeats, turning her head slightly to look at him this time. "I'm not."

"Maybe you aren't," he concedes with a slow shrug of his shoulders. "Maybe it isn't me _specifically_ that you're mad at. Perhaps you're just mad at the whole world and I happen to be the easiest person to take that out on right now as I'm the only one that you're letting within a kilometer of you."

"Eames-"

"Now, don't go getting your knickers all in a twist," he cuts her off, trying to soothe her a little bit, to let her know that he's not really being critical or anything. Or he's not trying to be. He can admit, at least to himself, that it's possible he may _sound_ critical right now. "I understand that you're hurting, darling. I really do. This must be quite a difficult time for you. But you can't just lock the whole world out, can you? That can't be the healthiest of choices."

"Get pregnant and realize you're going to have to raise the baby all on your own and then you can judge what I do."

"Well, that would be quite a thing to see, wouldn't it? And I'm pretty sure I'd make the medical journals for that one. First ever pregnant man. That would most _definitely_ get people talking, don't you think?"

"Smartass."

"As if you would expect anything less from me."

She didn't say anything for the rest of the night.

Eames didn't try to get her to. 

* * *

><p>Two and a half months. It took two and a half months for him to get her to talk to him in a way that was more than just a couple of words. At about two and a half months to the day from when he first showed up at her door they were finally able to sit in her living room and have a full-fledged conversation with each other without her feeling like she was about to scream or like she wanted to go hide in her bedroom; without him saying something that she took offense to or without her just sitting there entirely silent. It was a nice feeling.<p>

She was nearly seven months along by that time and there was absolutely no hiding her pregnancy any longer. Her stomach had rounded out and she was walking with that waddle that most pregnant women tend to get. And he has to admit that watching her walk like that is really rather cute. And that's simply because she's so tiny. But even though she's talking to him now it doesn't mean she's _happy_. But now that's simply because she doesn't like feeling heavy and bloated and waddling. It makes her uncomfortable but it's not really about her being pregnant or anything. Not anymore at least.

Despite that though they would sit together and eat meals a lot or watch television; they would talk about all sorts of things. And when Ariadne had ordered things for the spare room she was turning into a nursery he would help her set it up. He had gone out and bought paint in the color she wanted and helped her paint the room. (Him helping her paint it really meant him doing all the painting while she stood outside of the room talking to him but he honestly didn't mind.) There were times when there was awkward tension because of her stress, because of her unhappiness over being a single mother but all and all it had become quite calm, quite routine. They had fallen into things rather well. Still, he didn't think it was healthy for her to basically lock the rest of the world away in this little drawer way in the back of her mind, to hide from it. As a matter-of-fact the only time that he can get her to leave the apartment is when she _has to_ go to the doctor.

They're sitting in her kitchen eating breakfast- she's gotten into a pancake hit lately, real American pancake and not crepes like they serve in Paris- and they're barely talking at all. She's too busy eating, closing her eyes with every bite like she's experiencing the most pleasurable thing she's ever felt in her life. he sips his tea for a bit as he watches her, keeping quiet for now, just studying her face, watching her cutting new pieces off of the pancakes and sticking it into her mouth, chewing slowly and closing her eyes in the same way again.

He puts his teacup down, lifts up his piece of toast and takes a bit from it. "We should go out today," he suggests.

She pauses in eating, looks up at him, slowly finishes chewing her food and dabs at her mouth as she puts her fork down before she replies. "Why?" she asks after a moment.

"Because you need some fresh air, darling. Staying cooped up all the time isn't good for you. _Or_ the baby."

"Since when are you such an expert on what's good for unborn children?"

"Didn't you learn yet not to question how I know what I know?" he teases her, a cocky smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

Ariadne puffs out her cheeks in mild frustration, stabbing at the pancakes on her plate. She takes another bite, chews slowly, keeps her gaze on his face. "Where do you propose we go anyway?"

"Well, you need a crib, don't you?"

"I can just order one-"

"Don't say you're gonna order one online," he scolds, rolling his eyes a little bit as though she's talking about something utterly ridiculous and in a lot of ways she is. It really is just totally ridiculous that she would go about ordering everything for the baby online, almost like she's detaching herself from the whole thing. Because isn't that supposed to be fun? Choosing things for the baby that is. She should enjoy picking out furniture, picking out clothes. But she just seems to be far too content in doing it all through the internet. And that's a bit sad in his mind. She should want to see things up close and personal before actually buying them. And it's about time that she picks out something after seeing it in person.

"Come on, Ariadne," he encourages, reaching across the table and taking her free hand in his, squeezing down gently on it. "We'll go and you can look at crib and maybe pick one out. And then afterwards we can pick you up a nice little pastry on the way back here. It'll be nice."

Ariadne chews slowly as she looks at him, not quite sure whether that's a good idea or not. She supposes that it can't do any harm but at the same time she isn't sure that it can do any good. The fresh air _may_ do her some good but she can't be sure. In truth the only thing that _does_ sound appealing right now is the idea of getting a pastry afterwards. And obviously Eames only said that to try to get her to go. He's manipulative that way. Very, very manipulative.

"Fine," she begrudgingly agrees, putting her fork down onto the plate and slowly pulls her hand out of his so that she can go get dressed. "But if you don't get me that pastry that you promised I'm never, ever gonna forgive you."

"I'll make a note of that," he assures her, smiling a little bit as she heads towards the kitchen doorway. "You go get ready, luv. I'll clean up in here." 

* * *

><p>The cutest part about watching her getting ready was to see her waddling out of the room dressed with one of her little jumpers stretched over her belly. It was actually a really cute thing to see because she hadn't gone to try on things but instead bought them online so by now most of the jumpers that she had didn't fit over her stomach that well anymore. It really seems like its going to roll up over her stomach at any second and show it.<p>

So he stands off to the side and watches her as she makes her way around the store, waddling in her little sneakers, her bright red sweater stretched thin over her rounded abdomen, her black scarf tied tight around her neck. She runs her fingers across all sorts of things, across the cribs, along the legs of stuffed animals.

It had started out with the two of them being quite close together, her almost clinging to him for the first twenty minutes that they were there. He was actually rather surprised that she didn't cling onto him like a child. But she had seemed so, so nervous about being out there instead of home in her apartment.

But after a while she had ventured away from him and started to move through the store on her own, looking at every little thing that the store had to offer. She was looking at clothing and the stuffed animals and the toys; she ran her fingers along the edge of car seats and changing tables; she looked at crib liners and stopped to look at the cribs so that she could get an idea of what kind she wanted. And that's where he is as he looks at her, her cheeks stained a rosy pink from the heat blasting in the store, her eyes shinning in the late morning light peering through the windows. She looks, at that moment, particularly lovely even though she's always looked lovely to him. The simple kind of lovely that doesn't need makeup or fancy clothes to be beautiful but is still lovely nonetheless.

There's the sound of a voice next to him that draws his attention away from Ariadne's sweet face. He turns his head slowly, looking at the brunette woman standing there. She furrows her eyebrows at him, repeats what she just said and the words don't make sense to his ears. And he supposes that's because he's not fluent in the language. Not even in the slightest.

"I'm sorry," he tells her in as polite of a tone as he can manage. "I don't speak French." That's not the complete truth, of course. He does speak a little bit of French. Actually, he speaks a lot more than he lets on but he likes to save his language skills for the job. So if he has to tell a little white lie to keep people from knowing he's almost completely fluent in whatever language they happen to be speaking.

"Oh, it is not a problem." The woman smiles at him, her voice heavily accented as she talks to him. Her eyes jump across him, taking in this man who seems to be all alone spending time in a shop for children, babies. He supposes that to some it may seem strange but he can't help but wonder why its _that_ bizarre. Surely fathers come in from time to time to pick out things for their child.

"Can I be of help to you?" she finally asks after a moment.

"Actually, I'm just waiting for her," he informs the woman, motioning vaguely towards where Ariadne is standing. "She's looking at cribs."

The woman turns and fixes her dark brown gaze on the tiny little pregnant woman, looking at her as she stands there, her fingers still brushing over one of the cribs, studying every contour of it, the architect in her out at full force, making her check every single bit of the design. It's almost adorable really, the way she's moving her fingers over it, the way she's trying to take it all in. he can imagine her taking parts of the design and working it into buildings in her head, building things for a dreamscape that she doesn't even have to design yet.

The woman looked back at him, smiled a bit. "How long?"

"Pardon?"

"How long has she been pregnant?"

"Oh." He isn't even quite sure of that himself. Seven months? Almost eight? He has no idea so he goes with his safest bet. "Seven months." It sounds reasonable at least.

"Do you two know yet what gender it is you are having?"

Eames instinctively opens his mouth to tell her that the baby isn't his, to tell her that he's just Ariadne's friend because that's the truth, isn't it? And that's what she'd most likely want him to do. But the words don't leave his mouth because he doesn't _want them to_. He doesn't want to say that.

He looks over at Ariadne standing there, looks at the bump where the baby lives for now and can't help but smile. Looking back over at the woman he shakes his head a bit. "No," he tells her. "We wanted to wait."

True, he's not the baby's father. and true, one day Ariadne will probably find someone and get married and the baby will have a stepfather to take care of it but for now he's the closest thing to a father this baby has.

And that suits him just fine.


End file.
